finery for port, such dainties and delicacies as only the first mate of the Frarnie could think to have.  And as for Louie, it was no outfit, no costly gift of gold or trouble either, that she could give him:  she had nothing for him but a long, fine chain woven of her own hair, and she hung it round his neck with tears and embraces and words that could not be uttered and sighs that changed to sobs, and then came lingering delay upon delay, and passionate parting at the last.  But when the crew had weighed anchor and the sails were swelling and the waves beyond the bar crying out for them, Miss Frarnie and her mother could still be seen waving their handkerchiefs from an upper window; and half blind with the sorrow and the pain he choked away from sight, and mad with shame to think he had found no way but to accept their favors, Andrew felt that their signal must be answered, and sullenly waved his own in reply; and then the pilot was leaving the barque, and presently the shore and all its complications, and Louie crying herself sick, were forgotten in the excitement of the moment and its new duties.

“Didn’t say a word of love to Frarnie, eh?” remarked Mr. Maurice in answer to his wife’s communications that evening.  “A noble lad, then!  I like him all the better for it.  He shall have her all the sooner.  He won’t abuse our confidence:  that’s it.  He’ll wait till he’s bridged over the gap between them.  The first mate of a successful voyage is a better match for my daughter than the boy who stayed by the Sabrina, brave as he was.  He’s fond of her?  Don’t you think so?  There’s no doubt about that?  None at all!  All in good time—­all in good time.  I’ll speak to him myself.  They’re going to write to each other?  I thought so.”

Short as the trip was that the Frarnie made in that favorable season, it seemed to Louie an interminable period; but from the cheerful, hopeful smile upon her lips no one would ever have known how her heart was longing for her lover as she went about her work; for the little housekeeper had quite too much to do in keeping the cottage clean, the garden weedless, the nets mended, to be able to neglect one duty for any love-sick fancies it might be pleasant to indulge.  From morning till night her days were full in bringing happiness to others:  there was her father to make comfortable; there were the sick old women, of whom her aunt brought word, to concoct some delicacy for—­a cup of custard, to wit, a dish of the water-jelly she had learned how to make from the sea-moss she gathered on the beach, a broiled and buttered mushroom from the garden; there were the canaries and the cat to be cared for, and the dog that Andrew left with her to feed and shower caresses on; and there was the parrot’s toilet to be made and her lesson to be taught, and the single jars of preserves and pickles and ketchups to be put up for winter, and the herbs to be dried:  there were not, you may see, many minutes to be wasted